The Blue Ridge Resistance (8 page)

Chapter 12: Beyond Del Rio

As Evan and the men on the supply run were just getting ready to leave the church to press on with the mission at hand, Pastor Wallace asked, “So where are you headed from here? What’s your plan?”

Evan responded, “We were kind of hoping you could help us with that. Being a stopover point for migrants, we figured you may have heard a few things and could give us some advice on the subject.”

“Well,” the Pastor said as he scratched his chin, “you’ve heard of the UN troops that are on the ground in places, I assume?”

Evan nodded and said, “One of our regular HAM stations that recently dropped off of air made a few reports about them before he went silent.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem with transmitting stuff the powers-that-be might not be wanting put out. It doesn’t take much technology or skill to track a radio transmission. Especially a regular broadcaster. Anyway, from what the people passing through these parts have been saying, there are UN troops in the northeastern states that are said to be there as peacekeepers for a recovery, but they are behaving more like a pillaging occupying force. Without the worldwide media to report on them, it’s like they are dogs, turned loose on the people. It’s like they are enjoying the spoils of war the old-fashioned way, without, of course, having fought a war.”

“At least not directly,” Ed interjected.

“Exactly,” replied Pastor Wallace with a look of mutual understanding. “Anyway, the closest I’ve heard of them to us is Atlanta. Atlanta is said to be a staging ground. They’ve been bringing transport planes into what was the Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, and are said to have converted many of the hangars to barracks.”

Ed spoke up and said, “The same thing was going on in Ohio before I left, which is one of the reasons I finally decided to bug out.”

“Son of—” began Jason in disbelief.

Evan interrupted with, “I can’t imagine the militias in the south are gonna just roll over for that sort of thing.”

“No, I’d imagine not,” Pastor Wallace said in agreement. “One of the ladies that passed through with some of her family said her husband was killed by them while on an intel-gathering mission with a group of militias that banded together, known as the ‘Southern States Defensive Alliance’, or ‘Southern Alliance’ for short. She said just having your name associated with the Alliance is dangerous these days. As the UN troops get dug in, just as in any similar occupation, they begin to root out any possible insurgencies or resistance movements, which, of course, would be any flag waving American patriot these days.”

Evan looked at Jason and the others as they each thought for a moment about what they had heard. Pastor Wallace broke the silence. “And don’t you guys go getting yourselves all wrapped up in that fight, either. You’ve got families depending on you to get home to them, to provide for and protect them. Don’t leave them in this broken world alone too soon. There are plenty of other able-bodied men out there rallying for the cause. You need to continue to protect this area like you’ve been doing. That’s why you’re here, I’m sure of it. Help those kids of yours grow up to be the next generation of patriots. We need that more than anything.”

“You’re right,” Evan said, “but if—”

“If!” Pastor Wallace interrupted. “If they come this way and mess with the people around here, then you give’m hell. Make them scared of these hills. Make them regret ever leaving their own homeland to mess with ours. But until then, do what God put you here for and protect your families and neighbors.”

Evan just looked him in the eye and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Now, considering all of that, I recommend you head over into North Carolina through U.S. Highway 70 or maybe follow the French Broad River,” Pastor Wallace added. “If you go west, you’ll have more of a chance of bumping into the occupiers, as they are probably using the I-75 corridor as a way to link up with their forces up north.”

“That’s some pretty sound tactical thinking, Pastor,” Nate said, impressed with his grasp of the situation. 

“Marine Corps, son,” he replied. “I had another life before I got my calling.”

The men looked at each other and smiled, as it was just so obvious now. “So why North Carolina?” Jason asked.

Pastor Wallace continued to explain, “If you follow the French Broad or U.S. Highway 70 long enough, you eventually come across Hot Springs. Many of the migrants we’ve had come through, have come in via 70 to avoid the troubles of the population centers. In the cities not actively held by the remnants of the state governments, the non-state controlled governmental forces have taken over, like in Atlanta, and if not them, the gangs or other shady elements have. I’ve heard some talk of cartels, but I don’t know the extent of that. 

“Oh, great,” said Nate under his breath in disgust. The last thing he, of all people, wanted was more encroachment by the cartels, considering his previous struggles.

“Just as God told Abraham to stay out in the wilderness, and avoid Sodom and Gomorrah, that’s still good advice here. Anyway,” Pastor Wallace continued, “some of the folks passing through mentioned that there were actually a few swap meets and trading posts in the area. The Blue Ridge Militia, who just happens to be a key part of the Southern Alliance, has everything pretty well squared away for now, so it’s a fairly stable place. Between here and there is anybody’s guess, of course, but that’s the best advice I’ve got for you.”

“Well, sir, we greatly appreciate it,” Evan said as he reached out to shake Pastor Wallace’s hand in thanks. “We will do our best to bring back some supplies for you as well.”

As the men all thanked Pastor Wallace for his help and prepared to get back on the road, Charlie Blanchard said, “Oh, by the way Pastor, can you do me—or us, rather—a favor and call my wife on the CB and, somehow, discretely let her know we are okay without giving it away that we are gone?”

“Absolutely,” the pastor replied as he shook his hand.

With that, the men boarded the tractor and the trailer and got back on Route 107, headed for U.S. Highway 70. As they rolled through Del Rio, the empty homes, some burned to the ground by who knows what, were a sobering sight. If a small rural town like this can look so devastated by the collapse, just how could the rest of the country, and the world for that matter, possibly look? Considering that the world’s economies were so interdependent before the collapse, they imagined the same could be found all over. Except, of course, in Russia and China, the two seeming to be the only true survivors of the resulting global financial collapse. 

On the east end of town, they found Route 107 to again be blocked and guarded by several of the local men. This time, though, as the tractor approached, they pushed the old pickup truck that they were using as a barricade out of the way, allowing the tractor to pass unimpeded. As they rolled through, they all gave them a wave as one of the men shouted, “Good luck,” to them as they passed. 

“Time to put our game faces back on,” said Jason, over the handheld, to the men in the back. Nate replied with a double click of the mic and off they went.

Chapter 13: The Mounted Patrol

After Daryl and Griff got their fill of Linda’s delicious soup beans and cornbread, Griff said, “Linda, thank you so much for the meal. We thought we would be living on deer jerky today. That was a pleasant surprise.”

“Anytime, guys,” she replied with a smile. “I’m just glad to have the company. I won’t keep you any longer; I know you’ve got a long day ahead of you.”

“We’ll be back by tomorrow, or the next day at the latest,” added Daryl with a tip of his hat. “If anything out of the ordinary comes up or you need anything, just put the word out and we’ll come running.”

She replied with a smile, “You’re such a gentleman, Daryl, as always. You two ride careful.”

With that, Daryl and Griff mounted their horses and headed on to the next property. As the day went on, they stopped at each of the homesteads and found everything to be secure. With the exception of the absence of the men who were away, it was mostly business as usual. As they approached Jimmy Lewis’s home, however, their casual chat was interrupted by a gunshot that sounded like it was coming from directly in front of them, in the direction of the Lewis family’s barn. Jimmy’s wife, Beth, came running out of the barn screaming and yelling with an old pump shotgun in her hands. As she racked another shell into the chamber, a shot rang out from the woods, whipping her backwards, and knocking her to the ground, where she lay still and lifeless. Daryl and Griff kicked their horses into action and ran them at a full gallop to reach Beth.

As they approached her, Daryl could see there was nothing they could do; she had been struck on the left side of her head and died instantly. He yelled to Griff, “I’ve got the woods!” He altered his course in pursuit of the assailants.

Griff leapt off his horse as it came to a stop and checked her vitals, even though the cold hard truth was obvious, due to the severity of her wound. He then climbed back aboard his horse and rode off to join Daryl in the pursuit. Although he was feeling more comfortable on horseback as the day progressed, he felt barely in control of the horse as it ran at full speed through the tight confines of the surrounding woods. He ducked and dodged limbs and branches that the horse easily fit under, but left little room for a rider in the saddle. Small limbs would smack him in the face while dodging larger ones. One small branch managed to catch him in the eye, stunning him, causing him to lose focus for a moment. He looked up with his good eye open, just in time to see a dark object… and then there was darkness.

While in pursuit and closing in on the assailant fleeing on foot, Daryl narrowly avoided hitting a hog that had apparently been turned loose by the attacker. “Damn thieves,” he said under his breath as he adjusted his course. He saw the man dive behind a root cluster of a fallen tree, armed with some sort of bolt-action rifle. Daryl brought his horse to a stop and dismounted while pulling his .45-70 lever action rifle from its scabbard. He chambered a round as he took cover behind a tree and smacked his horse to get it to run away and out of the line of fire. 

“You can’t get away!” he yelled. “There are a lot more of us in these woods than just me.”

“You’re not the only one with friends out here,” a raspy man’s voice replied. “You had better get back there and tend to your woman before you get yourself killed.”

“You’re gonna die today,” yelled Daryl in a cold and dark voice. 

Just then, the bark of the tree Daryl was using for cover exploded just above his head as a shot came out of the woods from his right flank. Stunned by the impact, he instinctively dove to another tree just behind him while he aimed in the direction of the shot. He saw a man in old style woodland camo BDUs take aim in preparation to fire another shot. Daryl fired as a second shot rang out. As he heard a bullet whiz by his head, narrowly missing him, he cycled the lever of his rifle, chambered another round, and fired again, striking the man in the lower abdomen, dropping him to the ground where he writhed in pain like a wounded animal.

Daryl turned his attention back to the location of the man hiding behind the fallen tree and yelled, “I just met your friend. He’s not doing too well at the moment though. Give it up!”

Except for the ringing in his ears from the gunshots, all Daryl heard was silence. He pulled the signaling mirror that he always carried from his pack and used it to get a look around the tree without exposing himself. Where the hell is Griff? He thought to himself, wishing his backup would arrive. 

Not seeing anything in the mirror, he took a peek around the tree. Afraid the man had changed positions during the exchange of gunfire between him and the second assailant, Daryl began to scan the area adjacent to the downed tree, looking for any signs of movement. Feeling as if his situation had been compromised by possibly losing track of the first assailant, Daryl fell back, one tree at a time, getting some distance between himself and his adversary.

Once in a safe position, Daryl topped off the tube magazine of his rifle, replacing the two cartridges that he had fired, giving him a total of eight rounds in the tube and one in the chamber. He may not have the magazine capacity of a modern tactical rifle, but Daryl appreciated the knock-down power that the heavy projectile the old .45-70 Government cartridge provided. One hit was all he needed to knock someone down, body armor or not.

After a few more moments of silence, Daryl decided to circle around to the left to try and either flank, or get a better view of his adversary. He knew that he just could not break off the pursuit, as the other homesteads in the area would be in danger as long as this murderer was on the loose. Daryl crept through the woods, as he had done countless times, ground-stalking deer the old-fashioned way, and got to a position where he could see behind the man’s cover; he was indeed gone.

Daryl crouched down behind some vegetation surrounding a mature walnut tree, visually scanning all around, trying to figure out where the man might have gone. As he peered through the weeds with his rifle clutched tightly and pointed out in front of him, he heard a twig snap behind him and immediately rolled to the ground, releasing his rifle, and drew his model 1875 Remington revolver, aiming it underneath his arm as he turned to see the man creeping up behind him. 

He fired an un-aimed shot, striking the man in the shoulder causing him to drop his rifle. Daryl then continued turning towards the man, who was now unarmed, except for the knife in his belt that he clutched with his left hand. Daryl slowly cocked the hammer of his revolver and said, “I told you that you were gonna die today.” 

Just as the man began to pull the knife, Daryl fired a shot directly into the man’s abdomen, dropping him to the ground. He then walked over and looked into the eyes of the dying man, who had dropped the knife as he fell in order to grasp his devastating stomach wound. Without breaking his stare, Daryl walked over, picked up the knife, put it to the dying man’s throat, and said, “You have ten seconds to make your peace with God.” After counting to ten, Daryl slit the man’s throat, ending his suffering without wasting another bullet. 

He then stood up, scanned the area, and listened, hoping that there were no other intruders in the area. He walked over to the other dying man and ended his life in the same manner. He took the two rifles from the attackers and leaned them up against a tree so that they could return for them later when they came back to dispose of the bodies. Daryl then hiked back through the woods towards the Lewis home, finding his horse near the body of poor Beth Lewis.

“Where the hell are you, Griff?” he said, mumbling to himself while looking around.